


Warmth

by surpanakha



Category: rositara - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:41:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surpanakha/pseuds/surpanakha
Summary: During those days cold nights when all they had was each other, they sought warmth in the little touches, but maybe it was something more. A sweet one-shot about how Tara and Rosita's relationship could have begun after Rosita tried to shoot Negan with the bullet Eugene made.





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> I am seuxrpanakha on Tumblr where I first posted an un-edited, un-proofread version of this fanfic.I feel sad that there are relatively few Rositara fanfics out there. Honestly, I ship them so hard, and I’ve noticed the chemistry of the characters since day one. Hope you like it!

It had been three days, three days since I pulled the trigger, three days since I hoped that the bullet Eugene made would embed itself on Negan’s head; it never did. Instead, it was lodged inside that anthropomorphized baseball bat. I know this because Tara tried to visit me once a day since the incident, and I’ve rejected her company thrice. I allowed her to dress the cut on my face before I dismissed her altogether, and repaired to Spencer’s house. This was not before I told her how stupid it was to confess to making the bullet. She stayed silent as she stitched the short gash on my face, although I saw the hurt look in her eyes. I only felt a little guilty. No one else should have died that day, but Negan or myself. Now, Olivia is dead, Tara had been held at gunpoint, and all I will have to show for my little act of bravery is a stupid scar on my face.

I heard her knock on the front door, which was kind of pointless since she would let herself in anyway. I hear her soft footsteps as she approached Spencer’s room, though the floor was creaking more than usual.

“Leave it on the table, thank you, ” I said, my back turned away from the door. 

“Leave what?” she replied.

“The food, ” I replied rather sharply. Why is she making this so hard?

“Well, I didn’t bring any,” Tara replied. I turned towards her, looking at her for the first time since she dressed my wound. 

“Why are you even here, Tara?”

“I’m moving in,” she said, motioning to the bags at her feet.

I bolted up the bed, irritated. “Stop right there, you’re not moving in.”

“Well, this is not your house, is it?” 

“Tara, I don’t know what has gotten into your brain, but you are not moving in. I want to be left alone. We all have different ways of grieving. I want to do it alone. I don’t want your company. I don’t care for your alphabet noodle soups, and it’s not my problem that you haven’t shed a single tear for Denice, and it’s not my job to show you how to do it,” the moment I said it, I regretted it, as I saw a cloud cast on her face. Hurt was spelled all over her round eyes, and my friend looked down.

“I did cry, a lot. She’s my second girlfriend to die, you know”

“I’m sorry, Tara–I didn’t mean to,” I stood up in front of her to somehow touch her. Her face, her shoulders, anywhere to show her I was not the monster I was three seconds ago, but she took three steps back and lifted one of her bags.

“Anyway, my only point is, I live in Denice’ house alone, you live here alone. We’re only two women with two big houses and that’s an awful waste of resources at a time like this, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said with a forced smile. I felt obliged to, how could I say no, after my lack of tact just a while ago. Typical Rosita, acting without thinking. Back in my days at the military quick decision making was a valuable skill, but nowadays, I've only managed to get people killed. Or hurt.

“Are you only saying that because you’ve been such a bitch for the past three days?”

“Nope, definitely not,” I said, crossing my arms above my chest.

“A-okay. So, I’ll just coop up in Deanna’s room and maybe I can make us some breakfast after.”

“Let me help you, okay?” I said.

“Sure.” Tara handed me one of her bags and we made for the stairs, up to the master’s bedroom. Reg and Deanna’s. I’ve actually never set foot there.Tara opened the door, and the dust from being uninhabited immediately assaulted us, going for our eyes and lungs.

“Spencer told me the family settled into the rooms downstairs after the downfall, to be closer to one another,” I tried to say in between coughing fits. “I guess they never opened this room since then.” Tara immediately closed the door and took a heavy breath.

“Well, that won’t work out, I’ll just take one of the rooms downstairs.”

“No,” I started, holding her forearm to stop her. “You know what, we can share.”

“Share?”

“Spencer’s room,” I replied. “Come on.”

And so we marched downstairs, to the room where we were previously. Spencer's mancave. Maybe we'll find time later to redecorate when we win our freedom back. Spencer loved horses. There used to be paintings of them hanging up his walls but the Saviors took those away. Or he probably offered them to Negan as a gift during the little show he put on trying to gain his trust. I walked towards Spencer’s cabinet and opened it. I placed some of his clothes on the lower shelves to make space for Tara’s things. Tara was still by the doorframe.

“What are you still doing there, come on and help me, dummy,” I said. “Bring your things over here.”

“Are you sure, Rosita? I don’t want to intrude.”

“What do you mean intrude?” I asked, curious.

“Well, this is pretty much yours and Spencer’s room. A-and your boyriend just died.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, Tara,” I replied. What was Spencer to me? A warm body? Except his body is now cold and underground. 

“Oh”

Was that relief I heard in her voice? Ever since we met, I knew the girl had a crush on me. Abraham told me as much. Hell, he wouldn't shut up about it.

“Get over me, Tara,” I teased, winking at her. I saw her cheeks blush a little. 

There you go, she still has a crush on me. It’s not really a big deal, as it never got in the way of our friendship. Besides, Tara never took advantage, no matter how close we became physically, never stared at my junk for more than three seconds, always knew her place. 

We sat in front of the cabinet, arranging what few belongings Tara had left. I placed neatly folded plaid tops one on top of the other. When I was done, she placed the bobblehead of a doctor, her supposed present for Denice, on top, lying down, as if making a bed of her clothes. I felt a tinge of guilt. At least I was with Abe when he died. At least I knew at the exact moment of his death. Tara didn’t even know until she came back from her run. She came back with a present, hoping to make a girlfriend smile, and she never even saw her body.

Tara was caressing the bobblehead gently with her fingers when I placed my hand on hers. I squeezed my acknowledgment of her pain. Big round eyes stared at mine.  
“I did cry, you know. I shed tears. Over there, at her house.”  
“I know, I know,” I replied, guilty. Too consumed by my pain, I was never there for her. Yet here she was, taking care of me for the past few days, even in the midst of her own grief, yet I dared to mock her.

She lay her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled of the sea and of blooming cotton. 

“You’re the only one I’ve got now, Rosita.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You’re the only one I have left, too,” I replied. And that was the truth. Everyone in my life from before the downfall was gone, Abe was gone, Eugene was taken away, and Spencer, he’s gone too but I never really knew him that well. All that I have now is Tara, my oldest friend. 

“You and me, we gotta stick together.” I heard her murmur to my chest. “Promise?”

Tara held up her fist to me. I bumped it with mine. We both wiped tears from our eyes and laughed, our first laughter in days.

“Come on,” I said, standing up. I held up my hand to her to help her stand up as well, “let’s cook a mean breakfast.”

That morning, we had pancakes. What a luxury. I found some of Spencer’s hidden stash underneath the bed, and I thought we could take some before surrendering the rest to the community pantry. I made Tara instant coffee I found from the same stash. She said she has never had one since the apocalypse began. 

The smell of batter and coffee filled the entire kitchen. I had never smelled something that good since it all began. Well, not until Tara lay beside me in bed that night.  
She had helped me clean the house the whole day, and night fell quickly. I was in bed, staring at the ceiling when Tara came in from the shower. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and still a bit wet. I felt the bed shift as she lay down. She smelled like lemons and oranges, a bit like summer. I’ve never been in bed with anyone who smelled that good. Abe didn’t stink, but he smelled like grass and the forest, and none of my former boyfriends smelled this gentle, this fragile.

“Goodnight, Rosita,” I heard her murmur before she turned to face the other side. I faced her back, inhaling the scent she left on the wet pillows. I don’t remember when exactly we started doing things. Not sleep together. Just some other things to keep us warm, like caresses on the arm, and kisses on the neck. I just remember that I did this for a few more nights, just smelling the trail she leaves behind whenever she goes off to dreamland. Then one night, my arm was around her waist, my front pressed against her back, and I was no longer smelling the wet pillows, but her nape. She responded by lightly drawing circles on my forearm. I knew she was awake because she has stopped breathing evenly. I could feel her heart thumping wildly through her back. I hesitated, thinking that I was uninvited, but she buried her body deeper into my torso. We spooned until we fell asleep. Daytime found us still spooning, me being the inner spoon this time around.

The next day, she made no mention of what happened the night before. I figured she didn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t. We chat about high school, my time in the military, her time at the police academy. We read books and did chores around the house, talked about our chances against the Saviors. Anything to keep our minds of what’s been happening every night. Some nights, I would make a pillow of her chest, and she would gently massage my temples as I place feather kisses on her neck. Sometimes I make her lie on her front, while I rain kisses down her neck and gently massage her back. I always wanted her to feel good because I don’t want her to think that I’m using her the way I used Spencer. This, this makes me feel good. Whatever this was. This was warmth. Just what I needed. I just hope I’m giving her what she needed, too.

Then there are those days when I’d be reminded that she was not mine alone, but Alexandria’s also. She’d be on supply runs for days on end. She wouldn’t let me come, says that Alexandria needs the best defenders, just in case. But I would worry. I worried a lot. I wait for her sometimes, by the gate of the community, binoculars at hand. There was a time I waited for a week. That was about the only time I interacted with other people apart from her, but she never came. On the eighth day, I heard a knock on the door as I was washing the dishes from a dinner I had alone. There she was, on the porch, dirty, with several cuts on her face and arms, yet beaming.

“Look what I found,” she said. She held up a bobblehead of a soldier. A girl soldier. “I’m so happy I got to give it to you.”

Then I kissed her where I’ve never had before. On the lips. I never thought it would feel that way. I’ve never kissed a girl before. As I savored the softness of her lips, the silkiness of her tongue, I thought I should have been doing this a long time ago. Tara returned the kiss, deepening her mouth against mine. She caressed my face as I held on to her tattered shirt. I pressed my forehead against hers when my lungs screamed for oxygen.

“I missed you.”

“You stink,” I replied, kissing her again.

That night, fresh from the shower, I kissed her every wound before putting on ointment. Then, it was her turn to show me how girls kissed. She taught me to kiss at the corners of the mouth, hairless and smooth. She taught me to nibble and pull at the lower lip, soft and plump. She taught me how to caress a tongue with a tongue, gentle and hot. 

I undressed for her. There, by the moonlight, she let me be on top, let me take her shirt off, let me make all the moves. I was scared. I want to make her feel good. I thought I was a sex goddess, but this is an unchartered territory for me.

“Help me out, you’re the lesbian here,” I said. Probably sensing my frustration, she flipped our bodies over. Hovering above me, she started kissing me, from my temples down to the soles of my feet. No spot in my body was left cold. She caressed my breasts, making skillful use of her fingers as she kneaded one of my nipples, taking the other one in her mouth. I was squirming underneath her, screaming so hard I probably attracted a dozen walkers. I didn’t care. I’ve never felt this good. Like fire trailed from the bottoms of my feet straight into my groin. As she went down on me, I tried to learn her every move, every lick, every nip, every thrust of a finger. I was on a high, I think it took more than ten seconds for me to come down. She held me as I shook in bed. Later that night, she was the one attracting walkers with her screams.

I woke up first, within tangled sheets and intertwined legs. The sweat from the night before has dried up, and Tara slept soundly, with her back turned against me. I kissed her shoulder lightly before untangling myself from her. I turned to my bedside table and gave the soldier bobblehead a gentle tap. That’s when I remember the other bobblehead hiding in our closet. Right there and then, I resolved to visit Denice’ grave later in the day to ask permission, to make a promise, an assurance. Beside me, Tara stirred in her sleep, her hands reaching out to me. I immediately took her into my arms, sniffing the now fading scent of her citrusy hair. A promise. Now I know this was not just about warmth. This was something else. A promise of something maybe we can finally talk about come morning.


End file.
